


Your Stars To Hold

by earthbereconciled



Category: Video Blogging RPF, tronnor - Fandom, youtube - Fandom
Genre: I can't tag for crap sorry, M/M, Tronnor, obviously going to have angst/fluff and all the joys of life, tronnor au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-17
Updated: 2015-06-26
Packaged: 2018-03-18 06:54:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3560270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/earthbereconciled/pseuds/earthbereconciled
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU in which Connor and Troye are purely strangers: their first interaction timid, calculating. In which trust is a privilege, not a given. Only the kindest of hearts can deepen one another's skies. Only those who trust fully and completely can devote their universe to one another -- only those whose eyes are open can truly see.</p>
<p>(Also known as that AU where Connor is living in LA and newcomer Troye sends his world reeling.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I.

“Look, I get it. You’re not ready for this. We all go through stages like that, right after we come out of the closet. All I’m saying is… once you are ready… Give me a call. Okay?”

 

Connor managed a slight nod, eyes deadened and dulled to the man standing in front of him. He should have been over the moon to have won Grant’s affections. Yet, even now, with his boyfriend of two months packing his bags, the brunet felt absolutely nothing. He didn’t know what was worse -- feeling the pain, or being too numb to acknowledge it. It had been like this for quite some time; the spark had made its way out of Connor’s life, and in its previously place now resided a lead weight in the center of his chest. Waking up grew increasingly more difficult, and slowly but surely Grant had lost the ability to keep Connor optimistic. The young man well known in his circuit of friends as their communal sunshine had lost his light. He’d pretended, for a brief while. He’d thought that, perhaps if he buried this feeling deep within, no one would ever notice.

 

Grant noticed. Sometimes Connor wondered if his boyfriend -- ex boyfriend -- was too intuitive for his own good. After murmured goodbyes and an awkward hug, Grant was out the door and Connor knew what it was like to be truly alone. The apartment was empty save for his simple decorations and belongings. It seemed cold without Grant here.

 

He wasn’t saddened due to severed romantic ties; that couldn’t possibly be it. Connor had been subject to anguish for an extensive period of time. This added angst was just the icing on the cake. As he ventured into his bedroom, he couldn’t help but ponder why he’d ever think to put his own wellbeing before Grant’s -- if he’d just swallowed his pride and continued to fake it, perhaps his world would have righted himself. ‘Fake it until you make it,’ was a revered philosophy, after all. It wouldn't be so highly acclaimed if it didn't bear results.

 

Connor nestled himself beneath the blankets, pulling the covers to his chin. He sought comfort in their warmth. Although Grant hadn’t earned his heart, he had been someone with kind words, and a hand to hold. Now, without someone to root him to the ground, Connor felt as though he were adrift in a realm of uncertainty.

 

He watched the sun dip below the horizon through the window, right cheek pressed against the pillows. Without dinner, he stumbled into sleep’s beckoning arms. His dreams prevented any substantial rest, but any shuteye was far better than none.

 

Whilst Connor tossed and turned, a certain other boy lay wide awake in his new Los Angeles flat, eyes tracing patterns across the ceiling. The walls and floors sported nothing but empty space, for he’d just arrived in the city that morning. Pink lips curled into a soft smile as stunning blue eyes fell shut, dark eyelashes fanning rosy cheeks. Los Angeles had always been his dream -- and now, he was living it.


	2. II.

       The sunlight pooled in from the window and drenched the room in a golden glow. Optimally, this would serve as motivation to seize the day, but Troye had fallen asleep content. There was no feasible way he’d voluntarily leave the warm embrace of his blankets for a much harsher, crueler world.

 

       Letting out  soft a hum, he turned onto his side, squinting towards the small clock perched upon a few cardboard boxes. They served as a temporary bedside table, and though some (mainly Tyde) would argue that it was ratchet, he’d grown to appreciate the simplistic, indie vibe the arrangement brought about. His eyes scanned along the boxes, before settling on the the clock’s face.

 

       8:00am -- marvelous. He had ample time to explore the city. Perhaps it was the mental recognition that he was no longer in Perth, or rather the acknowledgement of L.A., but the very thought of the city quickened his heartbeat and placed a dreamy smile on his lips. Getting up wouldn’t be too cumbersome of a task, with the bustling streets and wild adventures Los Angeles had to offer beckoning him out the door. Troye’s eyes, after all, were already open, and that was half the battle. He blinked a few times before attempting to rub the sleep from his eyes. A minute later he was sitting up, blankets tugged up to his chin.

 

       “Okay, cool. You’re just gonna get up and start your day,” he mumbled to himself, his voice filling the air where lulled silence once lingered. Sure enough, ten minutes later, Troye was going about his morning routine as per usual, with a bit of added tripping. (He’d address plethora of boxes littering the floors later -- coffee and breakfast were a much more pressing matter.) After having showered and dressed, Troye gave himself a long look in the mirror. Quiffed hair, dark jeans, light t-shirt, beanie, and platform converse. That would do. Pocketing his phone and wallet, he stepped outside of his new apartment and allowed the door to fall shut behind him. And so it commenced -- his first full day in Los Angeles.

 

       Perhaps it had been a bit dimwitted to think he could navigate the busy streets on his own. In Troye’s defense, the films and YouTube videos of the area never depicted directional challenges as particularly prevalent. Then again, Troye wasn’t an American or a local -- he didn’t have a true background in these types of endeavors. Of course, said lack of knowledge led him to a street corner, gazing at all the street signs with wide eyes. In a perfect world, he’d think to use his cellular GPS, but the livelihood of downtown was overwhelming. The sheer multitude of people was wondrous and frightening all the same. Troye felt exposed in his clueless state, drawing pitying smiles from local passersby.

 

       “Oh, fuck. What a mess,” he grumbled under his breath, a hand traveling up to card through his hair. Cerulean eyes flickered to the road, and he decided on a whim that he should cross. It would be better than just standing and staring like a madman. Despite his apparent need for assistance, Troye knew city living was a journey paved solely by independence and intuition. Relying on others to find him anything would be foolish -- he needed to do this the hard way, or he might as well just swallow his pride and take the soonest flight back home.

 

       Exhaling, Troye stepped out into the street as the crossing signal indicated to do so. He strode deliberately, hands buried in his pockets and head bowed low. God, he was such a freaking tourist. He was surprised he hadn’t gotten laughed at yet -- he probably looked like a complete buffoon. Troye glanced up to step over the opposite curb, not realizing he’d undershot the distance until --

       “Oof, whoa. Whoa. Hi.” 

 

       A stranger’s voice sounded from in front of him, a pair of arms circling around Troye’s waist to prevent him from falling. He was pulled onto the sidewalk before the city traffic resumed its course.

 

       Troye blinked twice, stunned. The boy whose arms were around him -- still around him -- was nothing short of dazzling. Troye was staring, probably like a complete freak, but he couldn’t bring himself to stop. There was something about those emerald eyes that drew his interest and prevented him from pulling away.

 

       “Are you okay?”

 

       Troye was jolted from his daze, prompting a subtle gasp and laugh from his lips.

 

       “Wh-me?” Cue a soft, sheepish smile. He liked to think his cheeks weren’t completely red. (Spoiler alert: they so were.) His lips parted slightly, as if he were about to speak, except Troye couldn’t muster up so much as a single syllable. He managed a frantic, wide-eyed nod, and the stranger looked as thought he finally realized the essence of the situation and relinquished his gentle hold.

 

       “You sure?”

 

       No. _No_. That smile couldn’t be cute. No fucking way. Troye came to L.A. to make music, to study, not to find love -- especially the unrequited kind. He knew how this went; he’d develope a harmless crush on the straight guy, and soon he’d be head over heels for someone who’d never be able to reciprocate. This was not what he signed on for. Cute L.A. boys were not something he had room for on his agenda.

 

       “Yeah… I’m sure…” Troye trailed off, smiling slightly. “I -- wow. I’m sorry, I’m just completely not wake. At all.” There was a moment of silence between them, and Troye inwardly braced himself for the stranger to turn around and walk away. He was, as a matter of fact, emulating a first impression that had clearly gone to shit.

 

       “You’re not from around here, are you?” The other boy asked, cocking his head to the side. And gosh, Troye really needed to find an excuse to leave, because his heart was beating way too fast for him to act natural. “Maybe Australia?” The question seemed sudden, but the stranger’s eyes lit up in a way that almost made its random quality fade to the background.

 

       “I, um, yeah. Yeah! Perth, actually. It’s… wow. It’s my first day here. And it’s, uh… very not caffeinated.” Troye chuckled softly, and blushed -- he really had a knack for making social situations more awkward than necessary. At least, on his end of things. The boy across from him, however, seemed to thrive socially -- he was practically beaming. For what reason, Troye wasn’t exactly sure -- all he knew was that something about this exchange was making the other happy. That, or he was just a genuinely happy person to begin with. (He tried not to dwell on the former, because the thought that he could be the cause of such a gorgeous smile sent Troye’s heart jumping into his throat.)

 

       “Earth to you,” the sweet voice teased, with a gentle smile.

 

       “Huh?” Troye was roused from his inner monologue, all of a sudden aware of how long he’d retreated into his own thoughts. “Oh… You said something? Gah, I’m so sorry.” He rubbed at the back of his neck, casting an apologetic smile that tested the fine line between a grin and a grimace.

 

      “I just asked how you were finding your way round. I saw you waiting for the crosswalk before and you seemed kind lost. Not in a bad way, just… in a lost way.” _In a lost way_. Troye did a terrible job of biting back a giggle.

 

       “Honestly? I’m doing a pretty rubbish job of it. Navigating, that is. I think I’ve been truthfully going around in circles for the past hour.” He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, eyes flickering to the sidewalk below. “I’m kind of shit at new places. Like, literal shit.” Troye glanced back up in time to catch the stranger nodding and smiling knowingly.

 

       “I know what you mean. When I first moved here, I spent my first week hopelessly lost. It’s not a you thing -- it’s an L.A. thing.” The chestnut haired boy cast Troye a comforting smile. If that was his objective, boy was it working. “What exactly were you looking for? Two years in the making here, and I guarantee I know my way around completely. Except… don’t ask me about strip clubs. Or casinos. Those aren’t my forte at, like, all.” He giggled nervously, in a way that made Troye’s heart flutter.

 

       But wait -- was he just offered a tour? A personal tour led by the _insanely cute guy_ who’d saved him from face-planting into concrete? Troye’s eyebrows lifted, and his lips fell slightly agape. This had to be a joke; this guy couldn’t honestly want to spend the next foreseeable part of the day with him.

 

       “I’m serious!” The other said, grinning, as if he’d just read Troye’s mind. “I’m… also Connor Franta, but, y’know. That’s my name; not my state of being.”

 

       “Pleasure to meet you, Connor Franta, not the state of being but the name. I’m Troye Sivan. That’s, um… That’s me,” Troye answered sheepishly, trying (and failing) to subdue his deepening blush.

 

       Connor shifted slightly gesturing towards the fairly open sidewalk. “Where to, Troye? Sky's the limit! Well, actually, it's more like the edge of L.A. is the limit, but... You get the point.”

 

       “Well… I need some form of caffeine. And food. Also new clothes and apartment decor…” He trailed off, thinking for a moment. “But first, coffee.”

 

       “But first, coffee,” Connor repeated thoughtfully, a measure quieter. “I like that.” He held a hand out for Troye to take, casting him an enthusiastic smile. “The best coffee in L.A. awaits!” Troye lightly placed his hand in Connor’s without so much as a second thought, skin tingling where they made contact.

 

       “Lead the way, Con,” he said, lips forming a bright smile as the two of them walked down the street hand in hand.

 

       "Con?" Connor asked, eye alight with curiosity. He looked to Troye, brow furrowing slightly.

 

       "Mhm. Con, that's you now. I have quite the knack for nicknames," Troye teased with a playful wink.

 

       He could have sworn Connor's cheeks reddened.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, guys! I'm so sorry for the delay! I was on a trip with my choir and actually ended up in the hospital, but I'm back now and ready to roll. Your comments are endlessly appreciated. I hope you all have a lovely day! <3


	3. III.

"Yeah, but you've never heard LANY? I'm so fucking shocked! Really. I pegged you as the well-versed music type!" Troye exclaimed, coffee in hand as he and Connor walked through the park. They'd stopped at Connor's favorite coffee shop, and Troye had enjoyed the blend Connor had ordered him so much that he'd /had/ to take another to go. He raised the paper cup to his lips, taking a sip followed by an appreciative hum.

"I dunno, I have my faults! Apparently that's one of them. Now that I think of it though, I think I've heard one of their songs...?" The statement resonated as a slight question, which gave Connor an adorably inquisitive look to him. Troye tried not to dwell on that. Instead, he resorted to listing off some of his LANY favorites, in hopes the cute boy with the green eyes might have heard of them.

"Made in Hollywood?" Connor shook his head. "Walk Away?" Nope. "BRB?" Each of Troye's suggestions prompted a negative response from Connor -- a shake of the head, or the occasional slight furrow of the brow. "...ILYSB?" Troye asked. The green eyes before him immediately gained an enthused spark.

"The one that's like, 'my disco ball is my kitchen light'?" Connor asked, with a wide grin and a hopeful expression to match.

Troye beamed; truly beamed. "YES!" He proceeded to lightly sing a few lines of what arguably could be one of his favorite songs of all time, his eyes closing slightly as his head bopped to the imaginary beat.

"Oh, my heart hurts so good; I love you, babe. So bad, so bad..." As he trailed off, he looked to Connor, whose eyes were wide as saucers. Oh, god... Did he screw up?

"Uh... Everything okay?" Troye asked, suddenly timid. His eyes flickered from Connor's eyes to his lips for a moment. The sequence was purely coincidental; he was just trying to gauge what kind of a reaction this qualified as. Shock? Dismay? Disgust?

"What? Okay? Y-yeah... Yeah! Why?" Connor's words were too loud, too eager, to support his claim. He attempted to veil his previous reaction, but his eyes told all -- and Troye wasn't about to let it slide.

"Why'd you... Um. You just... You got all shock-faced. Like..." In lieu of explaining, Troye abandoned language, settling for a physical impression of what Connor's face had appeared like only moments prior. Chin tilting forward, Troye lifted his eyebrows, widened his eyes, and allowed his jaw to expand. Connor couldn't help but laugh at the display.

"Oh, my god... okay. Real talk, your voice. That's why." At that, Troye but his lip, index finger tapping nervously at the lid of his coffee cup. He diverted his gaze from Connor to the ground, teeth pressing ever so faintly against his bottom lip.

"Troye," Connor murmured, drawing the taller boy's eyes back to his own. "In a /good/ way. In a, 'holy hell, your voice is amazing and sexy and cool' way." The American blushed slightly, casting Troye a sweet smile. And god, was it difficult for Troye not to ignite right there on the spot -- his heart's speed alone could create sparks.

"Oh."

It was all he could manage before he took a sip of his drink, as if it might conceal his reddening cheeks. They walked along for a few moments, nothing by city sounds and their own footsteps interrupting their silence. The lack of speech wasn't uncomfortable, but it wasn't exactly cozy and carefree.

"I mean it." The words jolted Troye out of his thoughts, gaze flitting over towards Connor. "I really do, Troye. Your voice is phenomenal. Stunning. No joke." Troye felt as thought his chest might implode. How could someone be so kind? Who the hell gave Connor the right to be so goddamn cute? If he wasn't so busy mapping out Connor's features, Troye might have found the motivation necessary to outwardly curse the universe. But no, no... He couldn't, not while his gaze lingered on Connor's emerald eyes; his slightly rosy cheeks... His milky skin and perfect, pink lips, and the way his --

"Can I have your number?" It was a bold move, but Troye made it without pondering, without allowing his mind to analyze the situation. He'd always stood by the idea of just /doing/ things... So making a friend shouldn't be any different, right?

"My number?"

"Yeah. Your number. I mean... Not social security. Not house or credit card, just... your mobile?" Troye felt so unbelievably small, like a child asking to hold something that wasn't exactly within what was his to take. But he figured he'd at least make an attempt to find one friendly face in L.A. today.

 _Friend_. Yup, that was it. A solely platonic companion to explore the city with. A bro to fangirl over music and coffee. A strictly just-friend, to do just-friend things with. Right. Duh.

"Oh! Oh, sure. Um, yeah. Yeah! Hold on one sec. Give me your phone?" Connor's outstretched hand was practically inches from Troye's chest.

The Australian obliged after blinking a few times, removing his phone from the back pocket of his jeans. Troye unlocked it and handed it to Connor, who stopped walking to type his information into a new contact entry. Tongue poking just slightly beyond his lips, Connor embodied the epitome of intellectual cuteness. (Wait, was that even a thing? It _had_ to be a thing. And even if it wasn't, Connor was it.)

"Here, I put my address in there too. Y'know, just in case." Troye could've sworn Connor blushed towards the close of his sentence, but he couldn't possibly speculate on the matter. He was far too head over heels for the idea of spending more time with the individual who he'd, quite literally, fallen for.

As Connor handed the phone back, their fingertips barely brushed. But that 'barely', that almost nonexistent ounce of _something_ , sent Troye's heart lurching in his chest. It was like the universe was fully intent on slowly killing him.

"Thanks. Do you want mine?" Troye asked, to which Connor just shook his head.

"Already done. I texted myself from your phone. But... could I get a contact picture?" At Troye's confused expression, Connor ran a hand through his hair. "Oh, is that weird? Psh, right! That's totally weird. Um." He started to put his own phone away, but Troye gently reached out to stop him. His fingertips rested gently against Connor's wrist, and he cast the shorter boy a reassuring smile.

"S'not weird. Not at all, I promise." His touch lingered for a second longer before he pulled away, shifting his weight in order to distract from the inherent crimson tinge that warmed his face. Connor fumbled with his touch screen, but soon had the camera on and angled properly.

"Ready?" Troye grinned back at him.

"Just say when."

"Like... 'When'? The word? Or just indicate when I'm shooting?" Troye couldn't help but giggle at that.

"Anytime, Connor. You can't go wrong." Connor pointed, counting down to three before taking the photo. Before the shutter closed, Troye winked in his direction.

"Perfect," Connor whispered mostly to himself. He set the photo as Troye's contact picture, smiling down at his screen.

"What?" Of course, Troye had to find a way to ruin the moment. Connor's head snapped up, and his mouth struggled to form coherent words.

"Well, I-I... Uh... P-perfect, y'know? As in, 'wow, it worked'. As in, 'lookin' fresh, homie'." It was clear Connor was grappling for an acceptable response as he shuffled over to show Troye the picture.

"See? Any girl would be so lucky to date you." The shorter boy affectionately nudged Troye's shoulder, what could only be described as the signature move of all platonic relationships. 

"Ha. Wow. Not too shabby, huh? Thanks for taking that picture, dude." Dude? Since when did Troye ever call anyone 'dude'? He smiled, though it felt more like a cringe. Connor just beamed back, as if nothing was wrong -- everything was wrong. For starters, Connor believed Troye was straight. And second, well...

Troye was in way over his head. 

He'd just met and spent a morning with someone who was, arguably, the most physically and emotionally attractive guy in Los Angeles. And yet, even so, Troye had managed to land himself in deep water. He'd completely screwed himself over. 

Troye had doomed himself to the platonic wastelands of bromance. 


	4. IV.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, guys! I'm so delighted that you're liking this so far. I'm planning on starting up weekly updates again soon, once my summer calms down a bit. A general disclaimer: this chapter skips ahead roughly two weeks from when Connor and Troye first met. In that time period, they've been hanging out and forming a stronger bond. Though, as per usual with new friends, that bond can't progress until mutual, unconditional trust is established. I decided to take this chapter in a different route than I initially planned, so please let me know what you think!
> 
> As always, your reviews are endlessly appreciated. I hope you're having a lovely day!

Troye was stirred from slumber as his phone buzzed on the pillow beside him. He grumbled a string of incoherent complaints as he rolled over, hand bopping blindly against the plush surface beside him until his palm struck a rectangle of metal. Long fingers closed around the device and soon it was lifted to viewing level, just above his face. He gazed at the screen, squinting as his eyes adjusted to the harsh light. There, next to the tiny green messaging icon, was a notification that sent his heart racing.

 

**Connor** : Are you awake?

 

It shouldn’t have been that riveting, seeing as he and Connor had been texting and meeting up for just about two weeks. They’d become close friends in the short time allotted, bonding over discovering new blends of coffee, decorating Troye’s apartment, and introducing one another to ‘sick beats’. Following the reveal of Connor’s sad knowledge of LANY’s musical brilliance on the day they met, the two of them spent an evening at Connor’s place with Spotify, blankets, and snacks galore. After Troye ensured that Connor was well versed in LANY’s art, Connor had introduced him to an underground music duo, Oh Wonder. The group happened to capture Troye’s music-loving heart in one fell swoop. Two listens to ‘Livewire’ later, Troye was babbling on about the resonance of the lyrics and the profoundly unique vocal composition. Connor had been entranced in the music, or perhaps just tired, because he’d rested his head against Troye’s shoulder when their musical endeavors led them to songs of a more serious, existential nature. (Troye had attempted to ignore the spark of nerves that seized his chest, and was still trying to forget them now. Connor hadn’t mentioned it since, and four days had passed. _Obviously_ , Troye was over thinking things. Typical.)

 

There had been something oddly vulnerable about clicking through their playlists that night, listening to the songs that echoed in their souls like recurring dreams. At times, they would pause the music to explain why one particular line paralyzed their breath, or why a certain melody caused their emotional inhibitions to melt away. Multiple times, Troye had found himself crying, silent tears streaming down his cheeks. And that was what had reaffirmed his belief that music, however vast and varied, was a sacred, sacred thing.

 

As Connor had played through his ‘insomnia’ playlist, Troye had noted every twitch of his fingers, and every subtle shift in his expression. The shorter boy felt the emotions of each song so deeply and that, in turn, granted Troye a deep feeling of attachment. Despite their short time of knowing one another, there, curled up below the couch with a laptop shared between their laps, he felt as though he’d gained a glimpse into Connor’s soul. The experience had sparked a realization that still, days later, ached in his bones. Connor was not all smiles and sunshine. He, just like the vast majority of the world, had his own demons gnawing away at his conscience. It was a sobering thought that often denied Troye the ability to quiet his mind.

 

**Connor** : Sorry, you’re totally asleep and I’m being totally stupid.

Troye hadn’t noticed that his phone screen had locked until Connor’s subsequent text came in, drawing him away from the depths of his thoughts. He abandoned the memories of his and Connor’s hangouts, shifting his focus to the present moment. Nimble fingers unlocked his screen and typed out a reply.

**Troye** : You thinking you’re stupid for texting me is actually stupid. :) I’m awake. What’s up?

His eyes were glued to the grey bubble on the left of the chat screen as Connor typed his response. Three dots danced within the bubble’s confines, their change of color consistent. _First dark, second dark, third dark; third light, second light, first light. Repeat._ Seconds felt like days as Troye awaited Connor’s reply, and his mind couldn’t help but jump to overanalyzed conclusions. It was half past three in the morning; the likelihood that Connor was texting about something good was relatively slim. They’d discussed Connor’s insomnia before, and this must have been an instance of just that. Troye bit his lip, watching the other boy’s reply slide onto his screen.

**Connor** : I can’t sleep. My mind won’t shut up, you know? And I don’t know why, but I keep going back to the night we listened to all those songs together. It never even dawned on me to ask how you know all the meanings of so many lyrics after hearing them for the first time. It made me wonder if maybe you do some writing yourself? I know you came here to study eventually, but you seem like the creative type.

Ah. So Connor was laying awake thinking about him? Troye shouldn’t have smiled as brightly as he did. Usually, he’d deem the early morning an inappropriate time to beam, but fuck it. Connor was thinking about him, out of the billions of things he could be pondering -- of course Troye was going to get a tad bit giddy.

**Troye** : Funny you should say that, because I was thinking about that, too! The songs, not myself. Obviously. But I’ll let you in on a little secret: I do write music. I sing, and I may or may not play piano as well.

**Connor** : WHAT. Troye, are you serious?! That’s so incredible! Will I be able to hear your songs? If you as a person is any indication, they must be incredible.

Troye’s lungs stuttered. The mere notion of having Connor listen to his own songs sent him into a minor panic. No. Connor couldn’t listen to his songs; that would involve bearing all of his soul for the taking. Troye wasn’t ready for that. He wasn’t necessarily one to withhold trust, but… He certainly didn’t feel comfortable allowing himself to be so bloody vulnerable. So, naturally, he elected to prevent that scenario from ever occurring.

**Troye** : Nope! No. Nooooo. No way are you listening to my crap music. Not until it’s edited and polished, anyway.

**Connor** : Trooooyyyyyeeee! What ever happened to being spontaneous, Mr. ‘I Love It When Artists Are Raw and Candid’?

**Troye** : Artists. Other musicians. Not me, Con. Let’s not be stupid.

**Connor** : You thinking that me wanting to listen to your music is stupid is actually stupid. :)

Well, shit. Not only did Connor use his own words against him, but Troye didn’t have any legitimate excuse. Yes, he was dabbling in recording demos for possible submission, but that was beside the point. The _point_ was that his music put events in his life to song that Troye hadn’t even begun to explain to Connor. How was he supposed to analyze his own lyrics for someone else if he could barely tolerate listening to the tracks once he had them recorded and saved? Troye Sivan Mellet wasn’t a nightmare, but he certainly was no daydream. His thoughts and emotions reached far past the realm of what was decently ‘okay’. He suffered from crippling insecurity, at times. He could barely justify moving to L.A. to his parents, let alone himself.

Yes, it had practically been his dream since birth. Yes, it was where he saw potential for starting his independent life. But god, saying he didn’t lie awake at night with doubt suffocating his mind would be a blatant lie. He’d moved to Los Angeles with a dream in his heart and drive in his pocket -- but that didn’t guarantee anything. He’d sent one measly recording to a studio in Australia, and their partner studio in L.A. expressed interest. _Tentative_ interest. As in, if he screwed up, he’d be out. Gone. Stripped of any chance of ever living as a successful creator. Troye had flown to America fully expectant of unmotivated mornings and late, uninspired nights. He’d been well aware of the trials and tribulations associated with living on his own. What he hadn’t prepared himself for, of course, was the imminent chance of failure.

**Connor** : Tro? You okay? I mean, you might be asleep again, but I just want to make sure.

_No. Hell no. I’m doubting every decision I’ve ever fucking made, I can feel myself developing a crush on a straight guy, and I know all of my dreams have a high probability of going to shit._

__

**Troye** : Sure.

He was lying. He was lying to the _one_ boy in this city that he’d learned to maybe, possibly trust. But that was okay, right? Because Troye didn’t want Connor to be concerned. From what he’d gleaned from their emotional music night, Connor had enough to deal with on his own. Besides, Troye’s issues were petty and self-inflicted. He rubbed at his eyes, as if the back of his fist might be able to wipe away the worry that pounded its way to the forefront of his mind.

**Connor** : Troye.

**Troye** : Connor.

 

**Connor** : Tro.

 

**Troye** : Con.

**Connor** : You can talk to me.

Yes, yes, Troye _could_. He could talk to Connor right now, lay it all on the proverbial table. He could air his grievances and feel the weight of the world lifted from his shoulders. Yet that would be the easy way out, and the Australian knew better than to dump his deepest worries into the hands of someone who just might have other sources of trepidation.

**Troye** : I am talking to you. The magic of mobiles, right? :P

**Connor** : Why don’t you want me listening to your music?

_Because it’s the very essence of me, and it scares me shitless that someone might be able to see right through to my core._

**Troye** : Because I don’t.

**Connor** : But why? You can trust me.

There it was; that blasted four word phrase that would be the very bane of Troye’s existence: _You can trust me_. It was practically an invitation to get overly attached, to become dependent on Connor to get through anything and everything. And oh, how he would love to have Connor become the center of his universe. The basic principle didn’t seem too awful, and it presented very few implications. There was nothing more beautiful, after all, than finding trust in another.

There was also nothing more terrifying.

**Troye** : I know I can; as you, me. You’ll get to listen eventually, I promise. Just not now, okay?

Troye sincerely hoped his message didn’t resonate like a closed door. He didn’t want to shut Connor out; he just didn’t want to let him entirely in. (Yes, he did realize the problematic essence of that internal conflict.) He pulled his bottom lip between his teeth, gazing at his phone through dark lashes as the moving dots heralded Connor’s response.

**Connor** : Okay.

_Okay?_ Was that genuine or sarcastic? Disappointed or content? Troye despised written communications for this very reason -- in person, Connor’s vocal inflections highlighted even the subtlest shift of emotion. His emerald eyes told all. Over text message, four letter words like this left nothing to be known and _everything_ to be questioned. Troye texted back the only thing he could possibly think of, without delving into a full on lecture regarding ‘okay’ and its various meanings.

**Troye** : Okay...?

**Connor** : Yeah. I’m not about to pressure you into sharing things with me that you’re not ready to, you know? I don’t believe in that. Overstepping boundaries isn’t something I like to do. Or, even do ever, honestly. Not intentionally, anyway.

Phew. Okay, so… Perhaps that okay had been genuine. Maybe Connor truly didn’t mind being denied access to Troye’s original music, at least for the time being. Troye didn’t see how keeping it from Connor forever would be possible. Obviously, they’d reach a point where their mutual trust transcended all challenges, including this. Eventually, _hopefully_ , he’d be needing second opinions on the demos he’d begun recording on his laptop, and Connor could be someone to turn to. But not now. Oh, no, certainly not now. Sharing his music was not process Troye wanted to rush. As he thought through possible future scenarios, Troye barely noticed his fingers gliding across his phone screen.

**Troye** : Do you want to meet up?

The text was sent before Troye could do so much as register its existence. His thumbs flew across the touch screen far before he could read the words or stop himself from sending what might have been the world’s most dimwitted text. It was now quarter past four. Why the hell would Connor ever agree to see him at this hour? He bit his lip lightly as he quickly began to draft an explanation message, a lengthy paragraph full of ‘I wasn’t thinking’ and ‘it really must be the time talking here’. He didn’t get to hit send, however, because Connor’s reply had already popped up.

**Connor** : Always.

**Connor** : I mean, where? Wow. Autocorrect.

**Connor** : Nope, I’m a literal liar. That wasn’t autocorrect. That was me. All me.

Troye began to fight the urge to laugh, partially out of habit from living at home with his family for so long, until he realized that he was alone in his apartment. As soon as this fact clicked within him, the boy was giggling softly, blue eyes alight with amusement. It only took a partially awake mind to recognize how dreadfully adorable Connor was.

**Troye** : Always? Aw, cute. Me too.

**Troye** : Want to just come around mine? I have cookie mix, and a new set of hella kitchen utensils. We can make those peanut butter cookies I was raving about the other day.

**Connor** : I’ll be there in a few! Excuse my appearance because I’m not changing out of these sweats.

Really? _Really_? Connor was going to go out of his way to come to Troye’s flat to simply bake cookies from a mix? Troye’s mouth could practically catch flies at this point. He clamped it shut before opening it again, as if to speak, before realizing the stupidity of his actions. Connor wasn’t here… _yet_. And just that thought morphed his fly trap lips into a soft smile. Connor was coming to his flat. At four in the morning. Because he wanted to.

**Connor** : Tro? Is that okay?

Troye realized he had stopped typing mid-reply due to his excitement. He let out a shaky breath before completing his message and hitting send. Was it flirty? Perhaps. But, in a moment of crisis, Troye could always blame it on his lack of sleep. After his message sent with a soft whoosh from his phone speakers, Troye locked his screen. He sat up in bed and flicked on the lamp he’d picked up from Ikea, staring at his room like L.A. was his universe, and Connor was his sun. The text he’d sent was still burned into his mind as he stood, bare feet padding against the carpet as he made his way to the kitchen.

**  
Troye:** Yes! Yes. Fifty shades of okay, mhm. See you soon, Con. Bet you still look cute anyway. x


End file.
